


Mikey

by pr_squared



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Pony Play, Woman on Top, meat paradox
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24879022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pr_squared/pseuds/pr_squared
Summary: Over the years (decades), I've written and rewritten four pony boy stories. Three are already posted here. In  In "Big Boy," a young man is kidnapped, broken and trained to be a pony boy. He falls in love with his trainer but is sold to another.  That's what trainers do. Ultimately, he finds happiness but nothing is forever. "Beth and Ethan" traces a relationship between a jockey and her favorite mount over many years. He vicariously triumphs in the next generation. In "Rainbow Falls," a beautiful day is interrupted by a paroxysm of violence. The pony must decide his true allegiance.In "Mikey" (aka State Fair), a "Save the Males" fanatic learns the pleasure of the equestrienne arts.My two favorite ponyboy reads are "A Change of Scene" by I Binder and "Dancer" by Cherie Hazard
Kudos: 6





	1. Crime and Punishment

**Author's Note:**

> Over the years (decades), I've written and rewritten four pony boy stories. Three are already posted here. In In "Big Boy," a young man is kidnapped, broken and trained to be a pony boy. He falls in love with his trainer but is sold to another. That's what trainers do. Ultimately, he finds happiness but nothing is forever. "Beth and Ethan" traces a relationship between a jockey and her favorite mount over many years. He vicariously triumphs in the next generation. In "Rainbow Falls," a beautiful day is interrupted by a paroxysm of violence. The pony must decide his true allegiance. 
> 
> In "Mikey" (aka State Fair), a "Save the Males" fanatic learns the pleasure of the equestrienne arts.
> 
> My two favorite ponyboy reads are "A Change of Scene" by I Binder and "Dancer" by Cherie Hazard

Zoë stood straight, stared straight ahead, and bit her tongue. Her temper simmered under tight control while the judge, somber and dignified in her judicial robes, pronounced the sentence. Zoë’s sweating palms betrayed her apprehension. Her lawyer stood nervously on her left, her jaw tightly clenched, and Zoë’s mother stood on her right, already fighting back tears. It had all come down to this. Suddenly, Zoë didn’t feel so rebellious anymore.

Restitution! The judge had sentenced her to work off her debt. She and her friend Emma had snuck into Rothesay Stables and tried to rescue a pair of ponies. Unexpectedly, the damn, stupid beasts weren’t exactly eager to be liberated – they were so thoroughly befuddled that their panic combined with their size and stubborn strength scuttled what had seemed a very good plan. In retrospect, their determined stupidity made her doubt any who claimed that her “brothers” truly possessed human intelligence. In any event, Zoë was to work off her sentence at the very scene of her crime, Rothesay Stables. She wondered where they would send Emma. 

Her mother was crying again – now tears of joy. 

Despite the tactical defeat, Zoë’s lawyer had a look of self-satisfaction. Her client had gotten off much more easily than she had feared. She snapped closed her man-skin leather briefcase and tapped it once for good luck. “You know, Zoë, the judge might have assigned you to work at a ranch or even an abattoir. Those mounts you tried to steal were valuable property.” 

“Liberate, not steal,” Zoë insisted, though now largely out of habit with little of her past fervor. Her fading passion was apparent. “We have no right to enslave – worse, to domesticate - our brothers. We treat them as animals.” 

“Honey, they are animals. Didn’t they teach you about the horrors of the Patriarchal Age in school?” her mother repeated for the hundredth time. Who could know the catalogue of horrors and not understand the critical need to control brute male strength and eagerness for violence? She had asked her daughter this question so many times in the past. Some say that human civilization itself was women’s response to male strength and alacrity for violence. 

Zoë had always been a hard-working student, even if she had always asked too many questions and had too little tolerance for conventional answers. Maybe if her vision had been better and she hadn’t needed those unsightly glasses with the thick, coke-bottle bottom lenses, the others might have made her feel more accepted. Now, she had contact lenses. Maybe if her acne hadn’t been so severe and lasted so long, she might have found more happiness with usual rounds of teenage life. “Let’s go for a bite to eat,” her mom suggested. She firmly believed that people were always more reasonable on a full stomach.

“There’s a great spot nearby with an outstanding saddle of jacques,” suggested the lawyer. The notion itself roused her appetite. Then she remembered her client’s “Save-the-Males” views. Jacques was the flesh of human males as beef was the flesh of cattle or pork the flesh of swine. Some refused to partake of jacques; rather more refused to partake of garĉon, the lean and tender flesh of joey’s. To hold such views was fully acceptable as long as one obeyed the law and allowed others their preferences. She herself belonged to PET’M – People for the Ethical Treatment of Males - and she never knowingly ate garĉon. She restricted her purchases as best she was able to PET’M approved jacques and leathers. PET’M oversaw ranches and abattoirs and certified that the jacks were over 18 years of age and humanely reared, transported, and slaughtered. 

Phyllis, Zoë’s mother, was hungry too. Counselor Bradshaw’s suggestion sounded great to her but she saw the attorney’s sudden indecision. “Sounds great to me! You know, Zoë can always find something to eat. I’m certain they’ll have a vegetarian plate.”


	2. Rothesay Stables

Resigned but not exactly overflowing with remorse, Zoë wore her “Save-the-Males” tee shirt on her first day at Rothesay Stables. Her friend Emma had been assigned to work at a feedlot. Males were reared on ranches, fattened on fed lots, and slaughtered in abattoirs so that the workers would not become overly attached to their charges. A summer’s work in an abattoir, while unpleasant, could earn a year’s college tuition. Rothesay Stables was certainly a more palatable assignment, though.

“For such a tiny thing, you sure caused us a heap of trouble,” Ms. Langston admitted and turned Zoë over to Caitlin O’Connor, her chief trainer. “Just remember – our mounts – your ‘brothers’ are strong, impulsive, and prone to violence. Please, just be careful out there!” The safety of her employees was always foremost in Ms. Langston’s mind. 

Just outside the ranch house, Zoë and Caitlin chanced upon Daphne de Witter riding up on her prized racing mount, Wind Song. Rothesay Stables specialized in steeds, human males large enough to carry riders on their strong backs, not the smaller cart-pulling pony-boys. Other males, not already consigned to a ranch and slaughter, were subject to the Hunt in the first three summers after their eighteenth birthdays. Fewer than one in ten survived. This male stood fully six feet at the shoulder. He weighed more than two hundred fifty pounds. Daphne at five feet three sat perched on her small saddle between his broad shoulders. However, none might doubt who commanded and who obeyed. One hand held his reins. Her knees were tucked under his brawny arms. Spurs glistened brightly on the heels of her shiny boots that pressed against his flanks.

Zoë gawked. “Jack-shit,” she said to herself. She couldn’t help herself. The mount was a “man,” a term that had largely passed from common use. Except for a broad stripe of hair that passed front to back over the crown of his head and was tied in back in a “pony tail,” his body had been completely depilated. His nose, and nipples were pierced and ringed. Small bells hung from his nipple rings. His bit and bridle distorted his face. His wrists were restrained by his harness – linked to his collar with about a foot of lead. Thick plates of muscles hung in sharply defined sheets on his large frame. Perspiration dribbled in the folds between his sharply cut washboard abs. His sex was tucked neatly back between his muscular thighs. He smelled unsettlingly “male.” 

He was human, Zoë fiercely believed, though his close kinship with the bestial was undeniable.   
“Lady!” Zoë was speechless. The creature was so large and so up close - on the hoof, so to speak. Her experience with adult males was largely neatly trimmed, cellophane wrapped cuts of jacques in the cooler at market. This close, the mere size of him was intimidating. He was not like the boys in her high school class. His eyes stared dully off into the distance. She searched the face beneath his bridle for some confirmation of his humanity. His bridle, which held his bit in place, distorted his face and made his features somewhat other than human. His mouth was half open and his pierced tongue protruded, pulled forward by a tie attached to his bridle. This kept him from dislodging his bit with his tongue. Was he really a person, like me, she pondered for an instant, or was he actually some sort of subhuman beast? She knew the bloody history of the Patriarchal Age too well. 

“Touch him,” Caitlin smiled. 

“Do you think he’ll mind?” Zoë asked tentatively. He looked down on her, breathing heavily from exertion.

“No sudden moves now. And slowly, or you’ll spook him.” cautioned Caitlin. New people and new situations made her charges anxious. She was not overly concerned with their particular likes and dislikes. 

“He won’t bite! In fact, he actually likes being touched.” Daphne reassured her. She stroked his neck fondly.

Zoë touched him with some trepidation. She tried to be gentle. The poor creature suffered enough – bound in his bridle and having to carry his heavy saddle and rider around all day on his back. She didn’t want to add to his suffering. 

The mount was nervous too. He sensed Zoë’s anxiety. He never knew what strangers might do and this one’s obvious unease made her all the more unpredictable. He prayed mightily to avoid his mistress’ displeasure. 

He glowed softly with a sheen of perspiration. Zoë felt the smooth skin stretched tightly over his toned muscles. He had the strong legs and buttocks needed in a good mount and the broad shoulders needed to carry a rider with ease. She noted the colorful Rothesay tattoo that marked his right thigh. She found his proximity threatening but felt ready sympathy for the unfortunate creature – so cruelly enslaved against his will. 

Caitlin walked Zoë to the stables. “It’s not all that bad,” she explained, sensing Zoë’s mood and knowing a little of her history. “We feed them and care for them. There’s real affection between a mount and his mistress. Just don’t ever forget that they’re male and dangerous. The intact males are the worst – distractible, lazy, and belligerent. Just let them know who’s in charge – you! Geldings are so much easier to manage.” 

The stables didn’t smell as foully as Zoë had feared. Caitlin took Zoë to watch Martha mount a large male called Lucky on the grooming stand. He was bulkier than Ms. De Witter’s long-legged Wind Song and less gracefully constructed. His grooming was also less meticulous. His exuberant body hair betrayed his obvious kinship with the bestial. Zoë wondered how such a thick growth of body hair must feel and touched the smooth skin of her own female forearm for reassurance. 

Up close, Zoë found his immense size intimidating. The top of her head hardly reached his vestigial nipples. Thick muscles hung in heavy plates on his large frame giving him a harsh angularity that contrasted sharply with Zoë’s rounder feminine lines. His brawny thighs were almost as large as her waist. With a firm hand on his bridle, Martha led the beast to the grooming stand. She clipped his nose ring to the stand and gave him a sliver of apple. Food was plentiful in the stables, if bland, and ponies had a love of anything sweet or salty. 

Zoë found his bland expression comical. He chewed noisily and looked about. Martha could now attend to his grooming safely. She secured his ankle cuffs to stays set in the floor about a shoulder’s width apart and removed his hobble. This was nothing new for him. 

Everyone knew that males did not experience pain like people. Science had proven conclusively that testosterone poisoning damaged male brains and while the physiology was similar, adult males simply did not perceive pain like females or younger males. 

With him restrained at three points, nose ring and ankles cuffs, Martha freed one wrist from his safety harness. The obedient creature lifted his own arm to the cross piece of the grooming stand where Martha secured it. She then secured his other wrist and he hung spread-eagle on the grooming stand, his male paraphernalia on display. An animal might be unclothed but was never considered naked. Martha washed his upper body and then set to work on his muscular lower body. She handled his male paraphernalia with casual indifference. 

Shouting and cursing, two wranglers, Harper and Mackenzie, wrestled a second, male, almost as large, into the grooming area. His body bore the leavings of many whippings in various stages of healing. 

Martha looked up and smiled, glad she had drawn Lucky instead of old Mikey today. Mikey was famous or infamous for his intransigence. 

Zoë just watched.

This big fellow was markedly less tractable than old Lucky. Harper pulled on his nose ring and Mackenzie followed, jabbing his bottom with her electrified prod. Harper needed all of her strength. Modest pressure on his nose ring usually allowed a smaller woman to control a much larger, stronger male. Hobbled so that he could not kick or charge into her, he stumbled after Harper, resisting each step. When Harper finally had him on the platform, she asked for help. 

Zoë clenched her jaw and overcame her reluctance. She stiffened her resolve. She wanted to help but she didn’t want to hurt the unfortunate creature but she didn’t want him to injure her either. 

Harper and Mackenzie pulled on his nose ring while Martha lashed his ass. Once they had his nose ring clipped to the upright, they had him. Only he didn’t know it yet. Harper secured his ankles to the stays set in the floor and took a step back. His eyes blazed defiance. Mackenzie freed his right wrist from his harness. She held his wrist in her two hands and lifted it to the cross piece. Mikey ripped it from her grasp. She deftly dodged his flailing arm, stepped back and whipped him soundly. He screamed his rage. She beat him until his screams became sobs and then whimpers and he lifted his wrist to the cross piece himself. Harper secured it. This wasn’t his first time and Mackenzie added a few more painful strokes on his brawny buttocks to punish him for his intransigence. They secured his other wrist without incident.

This was Mikey, the most pig-headed male in the stable. Like an insufferable two-year-old, he didn’t like anything or anybody. The wranglers knew how much Ms. Langston had paid for him but they still wondered at her patience. No one had yet broken him. No one could stay in his damned saddle. 

Usually, a male quickly learns that disobedience brings prompt punishment and pain. He chooses to cooperate to avoid suffering. He hopes, perhaps, to deceive his captors, lull them into carelessness, and create an opportunity for escape. Slowly, he learns what is required of him. He learns to accept his bridle and bit. He learns to follow without crowding or lagging. Carrying a weighted saddle, he moves through mind-numbing endless cycles of “stand,” “kneel,” and “mount.” Kneeling with both knees on the ground, his hobble may be placed or removed with no danger of kicking or flight. Mount being a kneeling position with his right knee planted and his left leg up and parallel to the ground to offer his rider a platform for mounting. He learns to respond to simple verbal commands and masters the required gaits, such as, walk, trot, canter, and gallop. He learns to turn in response to pressure on his bit. Careful diet and arduous exercise greatly increase his strength and endurance. Grooming enhances his acceptance of being handled by trainers, grooms, and exercise girls. 

Reluctance, hesitation, or sloppiness bring prompt and rigorous correction. His trainer pushes his limits steadily and deliberately provokes defiance so that she may suppress it. Her severity is truly a kindness. Too mild a correction is too soon forgotten and need be repeated. He learns the painful consequences and utter futility of disobedience. Training continues well beyond prompt obedience. 

Long hours alone and isolated in his stall also have an effect. His time with his trainers and grooms is his only human contact. Otherwise, he is left with his own brooding thoughts and wild fantasies. 

With further training, his responses inevitably become unthinking and automatic. Disobedience and sloppiness become quite rare. Ultimately, he obeys not from conscious choice, but simply because obedience is required of him. He comes to treasure a kind word or touch and fear displeasure as much as the whip or prod. 

The mount, now thoroughly trained, is not yet thoroughly broken. At some point he realizes that his body is following his rider’s wishes automatically, whatever his inner dialogue. He had thought to deceive his captors but, in the end, he has only deceived himself. He can no longer pretend to himself that he obeys only as he chooses. His body responds to direction even before his conscious mind has fully processed the command. He may rebel one last time, desperately. Once subdued, however, he is both trained and broken. He comes to accept his new life and even to enjoy the pleasures it affords him. 

After several months of preparation, most accept a rider without a fuss, most but not all. Mikey had never accepted a rider.

After Harper washed Mikey head to toe, they replaced his hobble and harness. Caitlin arrived late and saw only the conclusion of the proceedings and smiled. She still had hopes for this Mikey. “Not bad, Zoë. I want you to muck the stables when Martha and Harper are done. Then you can empty all the slop buckets.” 

Zoë wondered just what a slop bucket might be. She swiftly found out. The odor of ordure was so thick that she could taste it. The stench soaked into her clothes. That night, she stripped to her skivvies on the stoop before venturing into her house. She showered at home before dinner. Once, people had once had intimate relations with these animals!


	3. First Ride

Zoë learned quickly. To her disgust, a mount did his necessaries in public with no apparent sense of shame, exactly like an animal. He squatted to crap and pissed standing up, wherever he might find himself. With his penis secured back between his thighs, urine squirted out his backside, almost comically, dribbling on his thighs and legs. 

She discovered that Caitlin, Martha, Harper, Mackenzie and the others who worked at the stables weren’t the monsters that she and her Save-the-Males colleagues had imagined. They demanded prompt and exact obedience from their charges. They protected their own personal safety but they were never capricious or cruel for cruelty’s own sake. Misbehavior was corrected promptly but males were never beaten on a whim or tortured for sport.

No one would torture a helpless puppy, Harper explained. To inflict suffering on a dumb creature for “fun” was simply demeaning to themselves as women. Beginning trainers were usually more afraid of the whip than their charges but quickly learned that rigor, like consistency, was truly a kindness. The wranglers sincerely guarded the health and well-being of their charges. Day by day, Zoë overcame her prejudices and recognized the wranglers’ dedication and sense of responsibility. 

Zoë worked hard. The trainers and grooms were pleased with her efforts. Harper and Martha were eager to get Zoë up in the saddle. “We’ll get you up on a mount in the exercise yard tonight after your chores. If you check out, we can go out on the trail bright and early tomorrow – it’s the weekend,” Harper suggested. 

“I don’t know how I let you guys talk me into this,” Zoë pondered as they neared the stables after work. She had vastly conflicting feelings. She had such feelings for the poor creatures, yet riding did look like fun. The mounts were strong and well-used to carrying a rider. They would view it as an escape from confinement in their narrow stalls. 

“You’ll love it!” said Martha with confidence. “The world simply looks better from up there!” 

“How about next week,” Zoë pleaded, “or even the week after next? I’m not really certain about this.” She was laughing at herself now out loud. Her fear surprised her. She usually wasn’t so timid. 

Martha ducked into the barn and returned, leading White Bread, a docile gelding, into the exercise yard. He was saddled and bridled. Though strongly built, he was not as imposing or impressive as Wind Song. 

Zoë inspected her mount. With newfound courage, she stroked his rough closely clipped bearded cheek. His nose was ringed. He had not been depilated. She patted his solid flank. He was different somehow. She looked between his brawny thighs. His sex, tucked back between his brawny thighs, looked small and shriveled compared to Wind Song. She was puzzled and her face revealed her confusion. 

Martha chuckled. “Zoë, he’s a gelding.” No hint of understanding dawned in Zoë’s eyes. 

“A gelding!” Harper explained. “Doc Jane took his balls. An intact male is often lazy, stubborn, and a danger to others and himself. Remember?” 

Understanding dawned. Most of the mounts in the stable were gelded. Geldings might kept two to a stall and fed in groups. Geldings were easier to manage although elite riders usually preferred intact males.

“This one may still be sneaky and lazy, but he’s no danger to anyone now,” Martha added. She poked White Bread behind his left knee and he knelt in the “mount” position. Harper attached a long lead to his bridle.

Reluctantly, Zoë grasped his bridle in her left hand as she had seen the others do. She lifted her left foot onto his brawny left thigh and stepped up as she had seen the other riders. She swung her right leg over and settled into his saddle, mumbling a continuous stream of ever more inventive reservations. Harper and Martha were impressed with her imagination and vocabulary but patiently encouraged her. Zoë grabbed his bridle with both hands. She had no spurs. An inexperienced rider might damage a valuable mount with her spurs. She placed her tennis shoe shod feet into the stirrups and Martha adjusted the straps. 

“Ready?” Martha asked. 

Zoë took a deep breath and nodded, yes. 

On Martha’s command, White Bread rose abruptly and for a long second, it seemed as if Zoë might tip backwards and fall. She grabbed his bridle with all her wiry strength and somehow kept her seat. Martha held his lead and Harper stood right behind to help Zoë get herself positioned securely in the saddle. White Bread was an experienced mount and well used to novice riders. Their minimal demands appealed to his innate laziness and lucky for him, the stable served many novices. Harper and Martha backed away. 

“Ride, Zoë!” Martha called 

White Bread just stood there, waiting for instruction. Zoë looked at Martha and Harper grinning at her. She didn’t know what to do next – “White Bread, go!” she said in what she thought must be a strong authoritative voice “Go, honey, go! “Whoa! No, that means stop!” She smiled at her embarrassing stupidity. “I mean - go!” His stubborn refusal to move recalled her failed rescue attempt. 

Harper snorted. Several other women had gathered around the exercise ring after dinner. They gawked and laughed among themselves. 

“Zoë, don’t argue with him, just kick him!” Martha urged.

Zoë looked at her in disbelief. Kick him?

Harper slapped White Bread sharply on his rump and he was off with a start. Zoë gripped the reins for dear life. No one yet trusted her with a crop yet, let alone spurs. 

All riders learned without spurs. Harper herself hadn’t worn spurs the day she got up on her first gelding. However, once she had worn them, she felt naked without them. She would never ride without them. No mount feels your spurs and doubts your authority.

Martha held the lead and walked to the center of the paddock. She directed White Bread to walk around the enclosure in a circle. 

Slowly and gradually, Zoë became more comfortable in her high perch. Martha uncoiled her lunging whip. 

“Ready to ride?” Hannah asked and before Zoë could frame an answer, Martha’s whip snapped. Zoë jumped and White Bread leaped forward and started to run. 

Zoë grasped the reins even more desperately and leaned forward. She bounced around wildly. She had no idea how to shift her weight with her mount’s movements. Somehow or other, her look of consternation gradually transformed into one of wild exhilaration, joy, not panic. “Faster, Martha, faster!” 

“Don’t ask me,” Martha chuckled. “Ask him!” As she spoke, she lashed out with her long whip again and White Bread dug deep into his rarely tapped energy reservoir. He shot ahead and Zoë whooped in glee. His innate laziness promptly returned though and he slowed a bit once he thought he could might away with it. Cunningly, he slowed very gradually hoping that he might escape unnoticed. Zoë sensed his slowing and kicked him hard. Even with her tennis shoes, she brought him back to speed. 

Both Zoë and White Bread were exhausted when Martha brought him to a stop. He knelt on command and Zoë dismounted clumsily. 

“I’ll walk him ‘til he cools down,” Martha offered. 

“I’ll walk with you,” Zoë volunteered. “Hey, White Bread, thanks for the ride!” she gushed. 

“You know, Martha,” Harper offered. “Zoë has the right size for a jockey.” 

White Bread looked at the unfamiliar female curiously. 

Riding was fun but she wished that she could tell them that she was opposed to all this. They shouldn’t treat the ponies like dumb animals.   
  
Zoë learned quickly. To her disgust, a mount did his necessaries in public with no apparent sense of shame, exactly like an animal. He squatted to crap and pissed standing up, wherever he might find himself. With his penis secured back between his thighs, urine squirted out his backside, almost comically, dribbling on his thighs and legs. 

She discovered that Caitlin, Martha, Harper, Mackenzie and the others who worked at the stables weren’t the monsters that she and her Save-the-Males colleagues imagined. They demanded prompt and thorough obedience from their charges. They protected their own personal safety but they were never capricious or cruel for cruelty’s own sake. Misbehavior was corrected promptly but males were never beaten on a whim or tortured for sport.

No one would torture a helpless puppy, Harper explained. To inflict suffering on a dumb creature for “fun” was simply demeaning to themselves as women. Beginning trainers were often more afraid of the whip than their charges but quickly learned that rigor, like consistency, was truly a kindness. The wranglers sincerely guarded the health and well-being of their charges. Day by day, Zoë overcame her prejudices and recognized the wranglers’ dedication and sense of responsibility. 

Zoë worked hard. The trainers and grooms were pleased with her efforts. Harper and Martha were eager to get Zoë up in the saddle. “We’ll get you up on a mount in the exercise yard tonight after your chores. If you check out, we can go out on the trail bright and early tomorrow – it’s the weekend,” Harper suggested. 

“I don’t know how I let you guys talk me into this,” Zoë pondered as they neared the stables after work. She had vastly conflicting feelings. She had such feelings for the poor creatures, yet riding did look like fun. The mounts were strong and well-used to carrying a rider. They would view it as an escape from confinement in their narrow stalls. 

“You’ll love it!” said Martha with confidence. “The world simply looks better from up there!” 

“How about next week,” Zoë pleaded, “or even the week after next? I’m not really certain about this.” She was laughing at herself now out loud. Her fear surprised her. She usually wasn’t so timid. 

Martha ducked into the barn and returned, leading White Bread, a docile gelding, into the exercise yard. He was saddled and bridled. Though strongly built, he was not as imposing or impressive as Wind Song. 

Zoë inspected her mount. With newfound courage, she stroked his rough closely clipped bearded cheek. His nose was ringed. He had not been depilated. She patted his solid flank. He was different somehow. She looked between his brawny thighs. His sex, tucked back between his brawny thighs, looked small and shriveled compared to Wind Song. She was puzzled and her face revealed her confusion. 

Martha chuckled. “Zoë, he’s a gelding.” No hint of understanding dawned in Zoë’s eyes.   
“A gelding!” Harper explained. “Doc Jane took his balls. An intact male is often lazy, stubborn, and a danger to others and himself. Remember?” 

Understanding dawned. Most of the mounts in the stable were gelded. Geldings might kept two to a stall and fed in groups. Geldings were easier to manage but elite riders usually preferred intact males.

“This one may still be sneaky and lazy, but he’s no danger to anyone now,” Martha added. She poked White Bread behind his left knee and he knelt in the “mount” position. Harper attached a long lead to his bridle.

Reluctantly, Zoë grasped his bridle in her left hand. She lifted her left foot onto his brawny left thigh and stepped up as she had seen the other riders. She swung her right leg over and settled into his saddle, mumbling a continuous stream of ever more inventive reservations. Harper and Martha were impressed with her imagination and vocabulary but patiently encouraged her. Zoë grabbed his bridle with both hands. She had no spurs. An inexperienced rider might damage a valuable mount with her spurs. She placed her tennis shoe shod feet into the stirrups and Martha adjusted the straps. 

“Ready?” Martha asked. 

Zoë took a deep breath and nodded, yes. 

On Martha’s command, White Bread rose abruptly and for a long second, it seemed as if Zoë might tip backwards and fall. She grabbed his bridle with all her wiry strength and somehow kept her seat. Martha held his lead and Harper stood right behind to help Zoë get herself positioned securely in the saddle. White Bread was an experienced mount and well used to novice riders. Their minimal demands appealed to his innate laziness and lucky for him, the stable served many novices.   
Harper and Martha backed away. 

“Ride, Zoë!” Martha called 

White Bread just stood there, waiting for instruction. Zoë looked at Martha and Harper grinning at her. She didn’t know what to do next – “White Bread, go!” she said in what she thought must be a strong authoritative voice “Go, honey, go! “Whoa! No, that means stop!” She smiled at her embarrassing stupidity. “I mean - go!” His stubborn refusal to move recalled her failed rescue attempt. 

Harper snorted. Several other women had gathered around the exercise ring after dinner. They gawked and laughed among themselves. 

“Zoë, don’t argue with him, just kick him!” Martha urged.

Zoë looked at her in disbelief. Kick him?

Harper slapped White Bread sharply on his rump and he was off with a start. Zoë gripped the reins for dear life. No one yet trusted her with a crop yet, let alone spurs. 

All riders learned without spurs. Harper herself hadn’t worn spurs the day she got up on her first gelding. However, once she had worn them, she felt naked without them. She would never ride without them. No mount feels your spurs and doubts your authority.

Martha held the lead and walked to the center of the paddock. She directed White Bread to walk around the enclosure in a circle. 

Slowly and gradually, Zoë became more comfortable in her high perch. Martha uncoiled her lunging whip. 

“Ready to ride?” Hannah asked and before Zoë could frame an answer, Martha’s whip snapped. Zoë jumped and White Bread leaped forward and started to run. 

Zoë grasped the reins even more desperately and leaned forward. She bounced around wildly. She had no idea how to shift her weight with her mount’s movements. Somehow or other, her look of consternation gradually transformed into one of wild exhilaration, joy, not panic. “Faster, Martha, faster!” 

“Don’t ask me,” Martha chuckled. “Ask him!” As she spoke, she lashed out with her long whip again and White Bread dug deep into his rarely tapped energy reservoir. He shot ahead and Zoë whooped in glee. His innate laziness promptly returned though and he slowed a bit once he thought he could might away with it. Cunningly, he slowed very gradually hoping that he might escape unnoticed. Zoë sensed his slowing and kicked him hard. Even with her tennis shoes, she brought him back to speed. 

Both Zoë and White Bread were exhausted when Martha brought him to a stop. He knelt on command and Zoë dismounted clumsily. 

“I’ll walk him ‘til he cools down,” Martha offered. 

“I’ll walk with you,” Zoë volunteered. “Hey, White Bread, thanks for the ride!” she gushed. 

“You know, Martha,” Harper offered. “Zoë has the right size for a jockey.” 

White Bread looked at the unfamiliar female curiously. 

Riding was fun but Zoë learned quickly. To her disgust, a mount did his necessaries in public with no apparent sense of shame, exactly like an animal. He squatted to crap and pissed standing up, wherever he might find himself. With his penis secured back between his thighs, urine squirted out his backside, almost comically, dribbling on his thighs and legs. 

She discovered that Caitlin, Martha, Harper, Mackenzie and the others who worked at the stables weren’t the monsters that she and her Save-the-Males colleagues imagined. They demanded prompt and thorough obedience from their charges. They protected their own personal safety but they were never capricious or cruel for cruelty’s own sake. Misbehavior was corrected promptly but males were never beaten on a whim or tortured for sport.

No one would torture a helpless puppy, Harper explained. To inflict suffering on a dumb creature for “fun” was simply demeaning to themselves as women. Beginning trainers were often more afraid of the whip than their charges but quickly learned that rigor, like consistency, was truly a kindness. The wranglers sincerely guarded the health and well-being of their charges. Day by day, Zoë overcame her prejudices and recognized the wranglers’ dedication and sense of responsibility. 

Zoë worked hard. The trainers and grooms were pleased with her efforts. Harper and Martha were eager to get Zoë up in the saddle. “We’ll get you up on a mount in the exercise yard tonight after your chores. If you check out, we can go out on the trail bright and early tomorrow – it’s the weekend,” Harper suggested. 

“I don’t know how I let you guys talk me into this,” Zoë pondered as they neared the stables after work. She had vastly conflicting feelings. She had such feelings for the poor creatures, yet riding did look like fun. The mounts were strong and well-used to carrying a rider. They would view it as an escape from confinement in their narrow stalls. 

“You’ll love it!” said Martha with confidence. “The world simply looks better from up there!” 

“How about next week,” Zoë pleaded, “or even the week after next? I’m not really certain about this.” She was laughing at herself now out loud. Her fear surprised her. She usually wasn’t so timid. 

Martha ducked into the barn and returned, leading White Bread, a docile gelding, into the exercise yard. He was saddled and bridled. Though strongly built, he was not as imposing or impressive as Wind Song. 

Zoë inspected her mount. With newfound courage, she stroked his rough closely clipped bearded cheek. His nose was ringed. He had not been depilated. She patted his solid flank. He was different somehow. She looked between his brawny thighs. His sex, tucked back between his brawny thighs, looked small and shriveled compared to Wind Song. She was puzzled and her face revealed her confusion. 

Martha chuckled. “Zoë, he’s a gelding.” No hint of understanding dawned in Zoë’s eyes.   
“A gelding!” Harper explained. “Doc Jane took his balls. An intact male is often lazy, stubborn, and a danger to others and himself. Remember?” 

Understanding dawned. Most of the mounts in the stable were gelded. Geldings might kept two to a stall and fed in groups. Geldings were easier to manage but elite riders usually preferred intact males.

“This one may still be sneaky and lazy, but he’s no danger to anyone now,” Martha added. She poked White Bread behind his left knee and he knelt in the “mount” position. Harper attached a long lead to his bridle.

Reluctantly, Zoë grasped his bridle in her left hand. She lifted her left foot onto his brawny left thigh and stepped up as she had seen the other riders. She swung her right leg over and settled into his saddle, mumbling a continuous stream of ever more inventive reservations. Harper and Martha were impressed with her imagination and vocabulary but patiently encouraged her. Zoë grabbed his bridle with both hands. She had no spurs. An inexperienced rider might damage a valuable mount with her spurs. She placed her tennis shoe shod feet into the stirrups and Martha adjusted the straps. 

“Ready?” Martha asked. 

Zoë took a deep breath and nodded, yes. 

On Martha’s command, White Bread rose abruptly and for a long second, it seemed as if Zoë might tip backwards and fall. She grabbed his bridle with all her wiry strength and somehow kept her seat. Martha held his lead and Harper stood right behind to help Zoë get herself positioned securely in the saddle. White Bread was an experienced mount and well used to novice riders. Their minimal demands appealed to his innate laziness and lucky for him, the stable served many novices.   
Harper and Martha backed away. 

“Ride, Zoë!” Martha called 

White Bread just stood there, waiting for instruction. Zoë looked at Martha and Harper grinning at her. She didn’t know what to do next – “White Bread, go!” she said in what she thought must be a strong authoritative voice “Go, honey, go! “Whoa! No, that means stop!” She smiled at her embarrassing stupidity. “I mean - go!” His stubborn refusal to move recalled her failed rescue attempt. 

Harper snorted. Several other women had gathered around the exercise ring after dinner. They gawked and laughed among themselves. 

“Zoë, don’t argue with him, just kick him!” Martha urged.

Zoë looked at her in disbelief. Kick him?

Harper slapped White Bread sharply on his rump and he was off with a start. Zoë gripped the reins for dear life. No one yet trusted her with a crop yet, let alone spurs. 

All riders learned without spurs. Harper herself hadn’t worn spurs the day she got up on her first gelding. However, once she had worn them, she felt naked without them. She would never ride without them. No mount feels your spurs and doubts your authority.

Martha held the lead and walked to the center of the paddock. She directed White Bread to walk around the enclosure in a circle. 

Slowly and gradually, Zoë became more comfortable in her high perch. Martha uncoiled her lunging whip. 

“Ready to ride?” Hannah asked and before Zoë could frame an answer, Martha’s whip snapped. Zoë jumped and White Bread leaped forward and started to run. 

Zoë grasped the reins even more desperately and leaned forward. She bounced around wildly. She had no idea how to shift her weight with her mount’s movements. Somehow or other, her look of consternation gradually transformed into one of wild exhilaration, joy, not panic. “Faster, Martha, faster!” 

“Don’t ask me,” Martha chuckled. “Ask him!” As she spoke, she lashed out with her long whip again and White Bread dug deep into his rarely tapped energy reservoir. He shot ahead and Zoë whooped in glee. His innate laziness promptly returned though and he slowed a bit once he thought he could might away with it. Cunningly, he slowed very gradually hoping that he might escape unnoticed. Zoë sensed his slowing and kicked him hard. Even with her tennis shoes, she brought him back to speed. 

Both Zoë and White Bread were exhausted when Martha brought him to a stop. He knelt on command and Zoë dismounted clumsily. 

“I’ll walk him ‘til he cools down,” Martha offered. 

“I’ll walk with you,” Zoë volunteered. “Hey, White Bread, thanks for the ride!” she gushed. 

“You know, Martha,” Harper offered. “Zoë has the right size for a jockey.” 

White Bread looked at the unfamiliar female curiously. 

Riding was fun but Zoë wished that she could tell them that she was opposed to all this. They shouldn’t treat tour brothers like dumb animals.   



	4. Grooming Stand

More experienced and quite confident now, Zoë tugged at the ring that pierced the Jim Dandy’s nipple. He knelt promptly and she lifted his upper lip to expose his identifying tattoo. She brought him to his feet and clipped his nose ring to the upright of the grooming stand. 

Harper stood with hand on hips this time and grinned, just watched her protégé. 

Zoë secured his ankles to the stays set in the floor and freed him from his hobble. She freed one wrist from his security harness and secured it to the crosspiece. The male stretched and extended his arm, inadvertently circling Zoë’s shoulders. Zoë deftly slipped out of his unintended embrace. 

The male was as surprised as she. Fear transformed his face. He had not intended to grab her. He had just moved his arm. To grab a wrangler was a major transgression with certain very unpleasant consequences. In the end, however, she had ducked and he hadn’t really grabbed her. 

“Mother warned me about boys like you!” Zoë quipped to Harper, quoting some book she had read in literature class and making light of the situation. 

The male was relieved to hear the humor in her voice. 

Harper saw the male’s anxious expression. “Just place your wrist on the cross piece” she warned, suddenly serious. The male complied and Zoë secured his arm. Then she freed his other arm and secured his other wrist to the cross piece. The male hung, secured spread eagle, on the grooming stand. 

The warm water, rich lather, and Zoë’s busy hands quickly washed away his anxiety. His tension fled as she worked his way down his brawny body. The water’s warmth penetrated his tired muscles. Her strong fingers pressed and kneaded. The room was warm and humid. Zoë perspired with exertion. Her limp hair drooped onto her forehead.

More confident now, Zoë slipped her hand between his brawny thighs. His pierced sex was pulled back and secured to a ring placed behind his scrotum. She freed his member and cupped his full ball sac in her hand. His penis had been circumcised to facilitate hygiene in the stable. Zoë gently assessed the size of each egg-like testicle. 

At first, he fidgeted uncomfortably as Zoë worked her way down his large body. The male gradually sank into lassitude. He forgot the discomfort of the device that held him exposed and spread eagle. He closed his eyes and savored her touch. 

Once upon a time, a single male might intimidate a dozen adult women simply by threatening to expose his male paraphernalia. That time was safely in the past. Once upon a time, male paraphernalia were the symbol of male superiority. Now they were seen as evidence of male vulnerability. She washed between his buttocks and the back of his legs. 

Zoë shifted to his front and worked her way up from his feet and ankle. A foot injury now would be a major setback to training. One foot at a time, she examined his feet carefully. She trimmed his toenails then worked her way up again to his lower legs and thighs. Her strong hands kneaded his exhausted muscles and the result was pure pleasure. 

Eyes closed, the male was very aware of her presence. Through the fragrance of the soap, he detected the faint aroma of her perfume. He felt the warmth of her body and the pressure of her body against his. Her hands worked their way up his inner thighs. 

His body responded. 

“Look at that!” Harper exclaimed. He was fully erect. 

Zoë looked up and his erect member slapped her across the mouth. “They never do lose hope, do they,” she quipped in evident good humor as she pushed him away. A blast of frigid water shrunk him and she was able to re-secure him easily. The male had tried his best to behave himself. 

“Filthy beast!” said Harper. “Someday we’ll have to do something about that.” 

The last of the water buckets was poured over his head. Zoë toweled him dry and Harper helped gamely. Zoë was fully as wet as he. Her jeans were soaked. Her pert breasts were clearly visible through her now translucent wet tee shirt.

Harper sprayed him with an insecticide so as to keep off the flies and mosquitoes. She replaced his bit, bridle, and safety harness. She reattached a loose hobble and only then freed his ankles. He walked unsteadily as she guided him back to his stall. Zoë helped him to lie down in the clean straw and attached a sturdy lead to his nose ring. Zoë closed the door and Harper slid the bolt shut.   
Harper and Zoë gathered up the washing materials and walked towards the door.

“He’s quite a handful,” Zoë said as they left. Her wet shoes sloshed as she walked.

“He was almost quite a mouthful,” Harper quipped. 

“They really can’t help themselves,” Zoë responded with real sympathy. “Is there somewhere I can wash up before dinner?”


	5. Mikey

Mikey threw himself against the gate one more time. His eyes blazed with defiance. The door didn’t budge any more than it had the first twenty times he had tried it. He had never expected to do better but he was very persistent and he tried yet again.

Mikey had always been big for his age and quick. He and his male friends had only scorn for the stupid girls and their mountains of schoolwork, of reading and writing. Mikey enjoyed his sports but he secretly envied the girls’ opportunity to learn something about the world. 

A boy had few options in this day and age. Many were consigned to the ranches to earn their families the government bonus and slaughtered for their meat and skins. Others participated in an annual Hunt. Those who survived three years would earn their freedom and limited citizenship. Only a few were chosen and trained to be mounts. Most mounts thought they had gotten the better part of the deal but Mikey had been crushed. 

Mikey was never lazy. He had trained hard, largely from boredom and to increase his chances should he have a chance to escape. He carried the weighted practice saddle around the exercise ring for hundreds of grueling hours. He had borne whatever burden his trainers chose but he simply refused to carry a rider. His high price gave him certain leverage. His trainers were reluctant to give up on him. Quite simply, he would not be broken. Harper had tried. Martha had tried. Mackenzie tried and had bruises to prove it. No one could stay in his saddle for any more than a few seconds. 

Ms. Langston looked at him and shook her head. He had the physical configuration of a champion. He had a reputation for trouble but she had thought her wranglers could break him. She had had a notion that his stubborn rage, once re-directed, might become a virtue and she had paid dearly for her hunch. 

Today was Zoë’s turn. With some difficulty, Mikey had been confined in the chute. Trembling with fear but steeled by determination, Zoë climbed the short ladder. Rothesay Stables had paid much to acquire this pony. Do one denied that he had spirit. However, no one could stay up in his saddle. Harper and Martha struggled to restrain the frantic mount as he threw himself against the gate time and again. He kicked the ground and howled his rage. His eyes blazed with defiance. 

Partly as a challenge to her political views and partly based on simple curiosity, Caitlin had insisted that Zoë mount the beast. Zoë had ridden a number of the more docile ponies and gained some skill. Unwilling to disappoint her new friends, took a deep breath and dropped her precious body into his saddle. The hard ground looked so far down. 

“Ready?” asked Martha. Zoë nodded, yes.

Harper swung the gate open and Mikey erupted into the yard. He twisted, turned, and dipped and dived. Zoë tumbled from the saddle like so many before her. She hit the ground jarringly - hard. She looked up and saw the others trying to recapture the pony. Caitlin was chuckling behind her fist. Martha and Harper were laughing but at least showed some concern for her welfare. 

Mikey just stood there in his saddle and bridle, looking a bit more than half proud of himself. His surgically altered throat could not form words but a broad, mocking grin illuminated his face beneath his bridle. His eyes blazed with defiance. 

Relentlessly, Martha backed him into a corner with her prod and Harper grabbed his bridle. 

Mikey thought seriously about kicking her and savored the apprehension bordering on fear on the faces of his tormentors but weighed the pleasure against the pain of the severe beating that would surely follow and chose to resist the temptation this time. He chose rather to enjoy his success at throwing this would-be rider.

Zoë scrambled unsteadily to her feet. “Mikey!” She roared without thinking. She burned with embarrassment. She weighed only 50 kg compared to Mikey’s 120 kg. Saddled and bridled, he was a magnificent beast, heavily muscled and buffed. His thick male paraphernalia hung nakedly between his brawny thighs. His ball sac was ripe and full. His glaring eyes and defiant expression betrayed his willful rebellion. She found his stupid grin most infuriating of all. He seemed so damned proud of himself.

Later, she confessed that a tremor of fear passed through her. Given her small statute and inexperience, she seemed a weak prospect to challenge his massive size and overwhelming strength. She recalled her school lessons of a time when women feared to go outside after dark, when women were virtually imprisoned by the ever-present threat of male violence. She remembered that she did not live in that past. 

She saw the ring that pierced his nose. She swallowed her panic and recalled what she had been taught. She reached up and yanked down hard on his nose ring. 

Despite his strength, his head went down – much more easily than she expected. She released him quickly and he straightened right up but his expression had changed. She sensed his dawning uncertainty.

She pursued her advantage. She moved in so close she could have stuck out her tongue and licked his sweaty skin. Her eyes were at the level of his nipples. Looking up awkwardly, she stared him right in the eye. She placed her small hand on his broadly muscled chest. Her hand looked so small but she pushed him firmly, barking “back!” She dearly prayed that she had not squeaked. 

Believe it or not, he took a step back. Her ferocity was unexpected in one so petite. 

“Mount!” she commanded, pursuing her sudden, unexpected advantage. Zoë surprised herself with the undeniable authority in her voice.

Mikey hesitated, suddenly uncertain.

Today, Zoë chose not to repeat herself. She lashed him sharply across his face with her crop, taking only a modicum of care to spare his eye. 

Something snapped in Mikey’s head. The fire died in his eyes. Without thinking, he dropped to one knee. 

Zoë knew that all eyes were on her when she stepped up on Mikey’s left thigh and threw her right leg over his saddle. “Up!” she barked. 

The large male stood. 

Suddenly, Zoë felt securely in control. She jabbed him smartly with her heels. She had no spurs, but he started forward anyway. She leaned forward and jabbed him again and he burst into a run. She guided him around the large paddock to the cheers of the watching trainers and exercise girls. Zoë found his speed exciting and her mastery of the much larger male exhilarating. 

Mikey followed her instructions. His endless hours of training emerged. His body responded to her commands before his mind had fully processed them. Gradually, though, his consciousness re-emerged. He was not yet willing to accept defeat. He had never been ridden. He would not be ridden. His defiance erupted and boiled over. Abruptly, his wild bucking and twisting erupted again. 

Zoë glance briefly at the ground so far below and held on desperately once again. However, she had tasted victory and she found it very appealing. She hung on with all her strength. Zoë held her seat.   
Mikey bellowed his frustration. He dropped to his knees and threw himself back, hoping to crush his petite rider against the hard-packed ground. 

Somehow, Zoë leaped clear and deftly rolled to her feet. The once merry audience fell silent. The trainers and exercise girls rushed to Zoë’s aid. 

Mikey fell onto his back. He struggled to stand. His hands were useless, securely restrained in his harness. 

Zoë was on him in a second. Her would-be rescuers stopped and watched in awe. Mikey was defenseless. She lashed his exposed belly and thighs mercilessly. Panic replaced rage in his eyes.   
He tried to twist away but she was relentless. Finally, he rolled onto to belly, exposing his back and buttocks. He tried to scoot away. Zoë pursued him and stopped her beating only when her arm tired and breath burned in her throat. 

Mikey was more breathless than she. A firm hand on his bridle, she helped him to his knees, then to the mount position, and then climbed bravely back into his saddle. 

Mikey slowly regained his strength. He rose to a stand and followed her directions precisely. She had a great ride that day. Finally, she rode him back to the stable, unaided.


	6. Woman's Work

Zoë’s petite size made her an obvious jockey. She quickly earned her spurs. Caitlin had given her total charge of Mikey. No one else at the stables could even stay up on him. She saw to his feeding and grooming. She rode him twice a day first in the exercise yard and later on the trails. A good jockey learns just what her mount can do. She asks him to give his all but knows his limits. A great jockey elicits her mount’s complete trust. He follows wherever she leads and gives all she demands, without hesitation or reservation. Zoë truly enjoyed her mastery of the powerful male and the respect of her new friends. 

Zoë was proud that Caitlin had trusted her with her own spurs, even if they were only stubby posts. She had more difficulty learning to use the whip. It seemed so cruel but scientific research had shown that males suffer from testosterone poisoning and don’t feel pain like real people. She soon found it a useful tool to remind her mount what she required of him. She simply loved the colorful red and gold Rothesay silks. 

With practiced efficiency, Zoë now mounted Mikey on the grooming stand. She remembered just how wet she had gotten herself and stripped down her to her tee shirt and panties.  
.  
Knowing that struggle was hopeless, Mikey’s resistance was even less than half-hearted. He hung spread-eagle on the grooming stand. He closed his eyes and tried to relax. He reviewed his day on the trail with Zoë in his saddle. Something seemed just right. They moved as one and his consciousness faded. His body responded to her direction before he had even parsed her command. Her weight was nothing. He found himself grudgingly eager for her company after his long hours alone in his stall. She sang to herself or talked to him quietly as she rode. Her words meant little to him and her references less but he enjoyed the sound of her voice. His surgically altered throat could not form a word in reply. Eagerly or even desperately, he sought her approval. He thought of the press of her thighs through the coarse fabric of her jeans on his bare skin. Her sweet breath laved his face and the fragrance of her hair filled his head. 

Zoë climbed up on the stool beside him. Starting with his head, she worked her way down his muscular body. She reached up to shampoo his hair and the bare skin of her trim thighs pressed against his broad, muscular back. Her soft breasts pressed firmly against his cheek, separated only by the thin cotton of her wet tee shirt. 

The large male found the close proximity of Zoë’s nearly naked, very female body distracting. He savored her touch. He leaned back against her to increase physical contact. He inhaled the subtle scent of her perfume. He turned his head and saw the pink nipple standing out against her paler modest breast underneath the wet cotton of her tee shirt. He turned his head further and pressed his cheek against her breast.

Zoë ignored him and attended to business. She soaped up his ample male parts. Aroused, her small hand could hardly encompass his girth. Once upon a time, she knew a male might terrorize a score of sane adult women simply by threatening to expose his male paraphernalia. That time was safely in the past. Male parts now symbolized male vulnerability rather than male privilege and prerogative. He grew to fill her hand. Zoë looked around quickly and saw no one. It wasn’t exactly against the rules and she didn't do it often but she didn’t want anyone to think her a closeted stag hag. She stood beside him. Her soft breasts pushed against his flank. She gently cupped his ball sac gently in one hand and kneaded his slippery sex with the other. She could feel his heavy testicles against her palm as she milked him strongly with her other hand. She watched herself in the mirror somehow positioned so strategically. She first noted the change in his breathing and the warm flush that infused his entire body. She held him close as he spent copiously and wiped her hand on his brawny thigh. Zoë hosed him off, replaced his harness and hobble, and returned him to his stall. She washed her hands very thoroughly.


	7. State Fair

The state fair always drew a large crowd. City folk rubbed shoulders with country folk, yuppies with wranglers. Young couples pushed strollers and grandmothers took their granddaughters in hand. Homemakers showed their jams and baked goods. Farmers and ranchers displayed their best cattle, swine, jacks, and sheep. Though the activity was fully PET’M certified, a small but loud band of sign-waving “Save-the-Males” demonstrators was always on hand. 

Many looked forward to the famed jack roast. Prime jacks turned lazily on their spits and the air was redolent with the aroma of hickory and roasting meat. Others eagerly anticipated the annual races where the local stables competed for glory and prize money. 

The races took place on the last Sunday of the fair. Zoë carried Rothesay colors on her Mikey. He had finally lived up to his promise. She and her Mikey won handily. Her mother cheered for her in the grandstand. Ms. Langston, Martha, Harper, Mackenzie and Caitlin waited for her at the finish line. Zoë stood proudly in the winners’ circle in her brilliant red and gold Rothesay colors. Mikey knelt beside her in the “mount position.” Perspiration poured from his powerful body. Zoë rested her arm on his brawny neck and pressed up against him.

A jubilant Catherine Langston shared the accolades and accepted the prize money. She took Mikey’s head between her manicured hands and kissed him solidly on the forehead. She looked him directly in the eye with her considerable authority. “I know what Caitlin says but, back home, I’m going to ride you myself. Enough foolishness already!” 

His eyes stared off in the distance but a trace of a smile brightened his face. 

Zoë groomed her mount and gave him his special treat. "We did good today!" she told him. 

Martha and Harper watched and smiled at her easy success.

Zoë shed her sweaty silks and donned her civilian clothes – her favorite “Save-the-Males” tee shirt and jeans. Ms. Langston had given her a new leather belt with a fancy silver Rothesay “R” buckle.

Harper, Zoë, and Martha secured Mikey in his trailer for the long ride back to Rothesay Stables. As long as Zoë was present, the powerful male gave them no trouble. 

The threesome set off to explore the fair. They found Zoë’s mother in the throng. She was proud of her daughter’s triumph and happy that she had found such nice new friends. 

They encountered Emma at the food tents. She had been Zoe’s companion in mischief at the start of this adventure. The two of them had tried unsuccessfully to rescue mounts from Rothesay stables. It all seemed so long ago. She was a tall, gangly girl. In contrast to her usual utilitarian garb, she wore a colorful sundress and a big grin. A red ribbon was pinned to her shoulder. She held a sandwich in her hand. 

“Zoë that was a great race! Watching you, I couldn’t even breathe!”

“Thanks, Emma! My Mikey gave me everything he had. And you – you look great. And I see your ribbon.” 

Emma’s bright grin faded for a moment and she shook her head sadly. “Well, my Timmy won second prize. He gave me everything he had too. Not bad for a beginner.” The court had assigned Emma to work at a feed lot. Among her other duties, she groomed a boy, fully 18 years old and PET’M certified, for showing. “My Timmy was really sweet and now he’s simply delicious!” 

Timmy had been reared at home and even attended high school. With the Hunt approaching at eighteen, his mother and sister brought him in and claimed the bounty. Sharing a crowded pen with twenty other unclothed boys at the feed lot was a new and unsettling experience. They stood in their own excrement on a raised platform that was washed clean three times a day. He had been grateful to be singled out for more individual attention though he knew his fate was no different than his fellows.

Emma had doted on him for three whole months, supervising his feeding, grooming, and exercise. She could not help but be fond of the creature and he blossomed under her care. 

She had had a very busy week. She shown her Timmy the previous weekend. She had needed plenty of sweet talk to coax poor Timmy into the trailer and from the trailer to his stall at the fair. He was a challenge but whip marks would detract from his score. People came by and gawked at the boy. Women and girls stood next to him and posed for pictures. New people and unfamiliar situations made her Timmy nervous. Monday was the official live judging. The entries were slaughtered, bled, gutted, and skinned on Tuesday and the judges inspected their quartered carcasses on Wednesday. The food tents placed their bids. The winners were announced on Friday. On Saturday, the fair goers could form their own opinions. Emma pointed eagerly to the nearby food tent and only then recalled her friend Zoe’s views. Embarrassed, she made a wry face but by then the aroma of the roasting jacques had piqued everyone’s appetite – well, almost everyone. 

“Gosh, I’m hungry,” said Harper. 

“Hope the lines aren’t too long,” added Martha. “Smell that? I’m actually drooling.”

Zoë thought to ask whether Emma had been with her Timmy when they put him down and decided against it. “I’m starving too,” she offered. “I’m hungry enough to eat a jack!” 

Martha, Harper, and her mother look curiously at her. Zoë’s odd aversion to jacques was well known.

“You’ll have to try my Timmy,” Emma gushed without much thought. She offered her friend a bite of her sandwich.

Zoë saw them looking at her so strangely. Understanding slowly dawned. “I’m hungry – but “eating a jack” is just a figure of speech. I’m really not hungry enough for jacques.” She made a face of her own. “Think we can find some barbecued corn?”


End file.
